"I wish you would take him," Marian said.

Don shook his head, walked back into the lounge and beckoned to Lorelli.

"Let's go," he said.

She followed him down the steps, not looking at the group on the veranda who watched her silently.

Harry said, "Will you drive or shall I, sir?"

"You're not coming," Don said as he opened the off-side door for Lorelli. He came around and slid under the driving wheel. "And don't argue, Harry," he went on as he saw the obstinate look cross Harry's face. "I'll be back around midday tomorrow. Keep an eye on Jacopo."

He let in the clutch before Harry had time to remonstrate which obviously he was about to do, and sent the car down the drive.

"Have you told the police about Alsconi?" Lorelli asked as they headed along the road towards Poggibonsi.

"Yes," Don returned. "There'll be a reception committee waiting for him at Palermo. He won't get away this time."

"I think he must be meeting someone. I can't understand why he killed Menotto. He hasn't driven a car for years. Menotto always drove him. I am sure he would never plan to drive to Palermo himself. He must be relying on someone to take him."

"Don't worry your brains about him," Don said. "The police will take care of him. Jacopo didn't know about the Bazzoni villa, did he?"

"No: only Felix and I."

"That's the point. He's sure you are dead. He'll think the Bazzoni villa is still safe. He'll walk right into the trap."

"I'll believe that when he is caught," Lorelli said. "He is very clever. If he does escape, you will have to be careful. I'm warning you. It is through you he is in trouble now. He won't forget. If he escapes, he won't rest until he has levelled scores."

"He won't escape," Don said, then abruptly, "Who killed Shapiro?" She looked at him.

"That's for the London police to find out if they can," she said indifferently. "Why should you care who killed him?"

Before Don could reply he saw the reflection of powerful headlights coming towards him. The road they were climbing was sinuous. He couldn't see the car, but the approaching headlights told him it was coming fast.

"This fella's in a hurry," he said and pulled well in to his right, dipping his headlights.

Then the car was upon them; well on the wrong side of the road and travelling at over fifty miles an hour, which was much too fast for such a road, it came at them with its headlights full on.

Don was completely blinded by the glare of the other car's lights. He rammed his foot down hard on the brake. He heard the squealing of tortured tyres as the other car also braked, then he felt a violent blow against the side of his car which skidded sideways, then under the pressure of the brakes, came to a stop.

Swearing under his breath, for he loved his car, Don fling open the car door and jumped out.

The other car had slewed around right across the road, its rear wheels inches from the overhang that went down into the valley of olive trees.

A man in a trench coat and slouch hat had got out of the car, leaving another man sitting in the off-side seat. He went to the front of the car to examine the damage. He took no notice of Don as he came up.

"What the h.e.l.l do you think you're playing at?" Don said in Italian. "You were over on the wrong side of the road."

The man in the trench coat threw the beam of a small flashlight on to the front wheel. The fender had been crushed down on the tyre, bursting it and ripping a large hole in the cover.

"We are in a hurry," he said in English. "Is your car badly damaged?"

"I don't give a d.a.m.n if you are in a hurry," Don said, exasperated. "You have no business to drive like that on this road."

"I asked if your car..." the man in the trench coat began when his companion got out of the car and came into the circle of light made by the flashlight.

"I seem to recognize your voice," he said and lifted the .45 he held in his hand so the barrel pointed at Don. "Surely it is Mr Micklem?"

The man in the trench coat turned the beam of the flashlight on Don's face.

"So we meet again," Alsconi said. "You appear a difficult man to get rid of. Stay where you are." The gun moved threateningly. To Crantor he went on, "See if there is anyone with him in the car."

Crantor walked over to the Bentley. Lorelli saw him coming, opened the car door and slid out. The gun in Crantor's hand brought her to an abrupt stop.

She stifled a scream as she recognized him.

It was only when Alsconi went down to where Menotto had left the car that he had sudden doubts whether he could drive the big Cadillac, and he had immediate regrets that he had wiped Menotto out without considering that he was depriving himself of the services of a chauffeur.

He hadn't handled a car for five or six years, and even then he had been a poor driver.

Crantor was due to land at midnight. It was essential to be there when he arrived. Alsconi had less than an hour and a half to reach the airstrip. Ahead of him lay forty miles of difficult driving.

He got into the car, and spent three or four exasperating minutes trying to find out how the headlights operated. Having finally turned them on and then turned on the ignition, he started the engine. He was thankful for the automatic gear box; at least he wouldn't have to cope with a clutch or a gear change. He drove down the drive to the gates, and he found that fifteen miles an hour was as fast as he could drive without having difficulty in keeping the car to the narrow tarmac. The guard at the lodge opened the gates for him and stared curiously at him as he edged the car through the gateway. Alsconi was far too busy getting the big car on to the road to notice the curious stare. With more s.p.a.ce to manoeuvre, he increased his speed, but he found twenty-five miles an hour was all he could safely drive at.

The hill road with its sharp bends bothered him, and he was sweating freely and cursing himself for getting rid of Menotto by the time he got to the crest. The clock on the dashboard warned him he was well behind time. It was essential that he should reach the airstrip before the aircraft landed. The aircraft would take off immediately Crantor disembarked, and Alsconi wanted to be on it when it did take off. He knew his best chance of escape was to fly to Palermo and get aboard his yacht before the police were alerted. He edged the speed of the car up to thirty-five miles an hour and almost ran off the road. If he hadn't slammed on the brakes, he would have gone over the overhang.

Cursing under his breath, he continued up the road at a greatly reduced speed.

An hour later, still crawling at twenty miles an hour, he reached the broad, straight road that led to the narrow road to the airstrip, and he pushed the speed of the car up to thirty-five miles an hour. Wrestling with the wheel, he managed to maintain this speed until he reached the right hand turn which would bring him after a mile drive to the airstrip.

As he drove down the narrow, b.u.mpy road, he saw, in the distance, the flares were alight, and he heard the roar of the aircraft's engine. He pushed down the accelerator, nearly swerving on to the gra.s.s. Then he saw the lights of the aircraft and he cursed. The aircraft was taking off, and as he drove on to the landing ground, the lights of the aircraft went out and the machine disappeared into the darkness.

He pulled up, sweating and furious. Now he had the long run down to Villa San Giovanni ahead of him. It would mean the loss of at least twenty-four hours before he could board the Nettuno. It was infuriating, but not a disaster. Felix and Lorelli were the only two who knew about the yacht, and they were dead by now. But he would have to be careful.

Although the police would have no idea which way he would be heading, they would be on the lookout for him.

Crantor, carrying a large suitcase, came out of the shadows and approached the car.

"Signor Alsconi?" he asked softly.

"Don't mention my name, you fool!" Alsconi snarled. "Have you the money?"

"Yes." Crantor paused by the car, trying to see Alsconi's face. This was a big moment for him.

"We're going to Palermo," Alsconi said. "I'll tell you the way as we go. You drive." He moved his bulk across the bench seat.

"Palermo?" Crantor said, startled. He opened the car door and slid under the steering wheel. "That's in Sicily, isn't it?"

"Where else, fool, could it be?" Alsconi snapped. "I wish to get there quickly. Will you stop making obvious remarks and get me there as quickly as you can?"

Crantor flushed. His own vicious temper stirred. He started the engine and drove down the b.u.mpy road at a speed that made Alsconi's small eyes widen.

"Turn left at the bottom of this road," he said. "Then straight on."

He huddled down in the comfortably padded seat and stared bleakly through the windshield as the car swayed and banged down the road and swung on to the main road with a squeal of tortured tyres.

Crantor felt the car's great surge of power. He liked to drive fast, and he sent the car roaring down the road with the speedometer needle touching 98 miles an hour.

What did this mean? he asked himself. Why Palermo? What was inside the wooden boxes that were stacked on the back seat? Why this urgency to get to Sicily? Had something gone wrong? Was Alsconi pulling out?

He glanced at the fat, huddled form at his side. The light from the dashboard showed up the slack, worried face, the bleak, screwed-up eyes and the black shadow of a careless shave.

He found Alsconi disappointing. After all he had heard of him, he had expected to find someone iron-hard instead of this fat, petulant, elderly man.

Alsconi felt Crantor's searching gaze and he in turn looked at him and inwardly shuddered. What a face! If he had known Crantor looked like this he would never have planned to make use of him. It was a face as easily recognized as Carlos's giant body. It was a face once seen couldn't possibly be forgotten. But the man could drive. If they continued at this speed they would be in Naples by the morning. He straightened a little in his seat.

"Very soon now," he said, "we shall come to the hill road into Siena. You will have to drive more slowly, but don't go too slow. It is essential I should be in Palermo as soon as you can possibly get me there."

"Will Felix be in Palermo? I understood he was in Siena," Crantor said as he edged up the speed of the car.

"Don't bother me with small talk," Alsconi said irritably. "I have things to think about."

Crantor drove on, his mind seething with rage at the snub. And it wasn't until they began to climb the twisting hill road and when he had to slacken speed, that he began to consider his position.

Alsconi had said there was to be a change. He had told him to come out immediately. Could that mean he was now to work closely with him? Did he want to? If Alsconi treated everyone in this way was it worth while working with such a man?

Crantor suddenly thought of the fifteen thousand pounds in five-pound notes he had brought out of England and that were now lying on the floor of the car. If he had known Alsconi was going to be like this, he would have taken the money for himself and dropped out of sight. It wouldn't have been easy, but it could have been done. It was not too late to do it now. Again he thought of the wooden boxes. What did they contain? More money?

His mind was so preoccupied with these thoughts that he came upon Don's Bentley without seeing it until it was too late. He swept around the curve in the road, then suddenly realized he was too far over to the left. He saw the Bentley's dipped headlights, and he slammed his foot down on the brake pedal.

He felt the violent impact and heard the front tyre burst. For one nerve-racking moment as the car swung broadside on, he thought it was going to crash down into the valley. He heard Alsconi cursing as he wrestled with the wheel, then the car came to a standstill. Shaken and furious with himself, he opened the car door and got out.

Lorelli looked beyond Crantor and recognized Alsconi's bulky figure. She felt herself turn cold.

Crantor said, "What are you doing here with Micklem?" He had lowered the gun. There was a puzzled expression on his face. "What is this?"

"Crantor! Bring her here! "Alsconi barked. " Don't let her get away."

Lorelli looked around wildly for a means of escape as Crantor caught hold of her wrist. She tried to jerk free, but he held her and pulled her across the road to where Alsconi was standing, covering Don with the gun.

In the reflected light from the Cadillac's headlamps, Alsconi looked white and flabby. His mouth twitched and there was fear in his eyes.

"Watch this man: shoot him if he moves," he said, then he caught hold of Lorelli's arm and pulled her into the light so he could see her clearly. "So you got away? And you have been talking, haven't you? You've been giving away my secrets." He dropped the gun into his pocket and caught hold of her by her throat, shaking her. "Haven't you?" he shouted at her.

Lorelli buckled at her knees, her hands pulled at Alsconi's wrists, trying to break his vicious grip.

"You've told him about my yacht, haven't you?" Alsconi snarled. "Haven't you?"

"Take your hands off her!" Don exclaimed. "You can't get away. The police are on the yacht now, waiting for you. They're at the Bazzoni villa as well."

Alsconi threw Lorelli from him so she sprawled in the road. He dragged out his gun, his face murderous. Stepping back so he could still watch Don, Crantor aimed a quick slap at Alsconi's wrist, knocking the gun out of his hand.

Alsconi staggered back, his face livid.

"Wait!" Crantor said sharply. "What is this? What's happening?"

"Happening?" Alsconi cried, his voice shrill. "She's betrayed us! That's what's happening! She's given us away to the police."

"What's this about a yacht? What yacht?"

"How can I get away unless I use the yacht?" Alsconi snarled. "The police have a description of me." Fear made his face slack and ugly. "There's money in the villa. How am I going to get away now?"

This news, came as a shock to Crantor. So Alsconi was on the run and the police had a description of him! Crantor's brain worked quickly. They hadn't a description of himself, he thought, but if he were caught with Alsconi... What a mug he had been! He should have taken the fifteen thousand and dropped out of sight. Then he had a sudden idea.

"What about the motor launch?" he asked. "Have you still got it?"

Alsconi blinked, then clapped his hands together.

"Of course!" He had forgotten the motor cruiser in the harbour of Civitavecchia: the cruiser that was used to smuggle French currency into Italy. "That's it! It had gone out of my mind. While the police wait for me in Palermo, I'll take the launch to Monte Carlo. We will go at once to Civitavecchia."

He picked up the gun that Crantor had knocked out of his hand. Lorelli had got to her feet and was now standing by Don, her face white. She watched Alsconi fearfully.

"Is Micklem's car damaged? Look and see," Alsconi said to Crantor. "I'll watch these two."

Crantor went over to the Bentley: apart from a buckled rear wing there seemed nothing the matter with the big car. He opened the door, slid under the driving wheel and started the engine. He shifted the gear lever and moved the car a few yards, then cut the engine and came back. "It's all right."

"Then we'll use it. It will be safer, and they will go with us. The police won't think of looking for me in a British car with three other people in it. Get those boxes out of the Cadillac and put them in his car. Then get the Cadillac off the road. Hurry!"

While Alsconi continued to cover Lorelli and Don, Crantor transferred the boxes into the boot of the Bentley. He put his and Alsconi's suitcases in beside them.

He returned to the Cadillac, released the parking brake, then going around to the front of the car, he leaned his weight against the bonnet. The car moved, its back wheels dropped off the road, and it crashed down the steep bank and ended up some fifty yards down the hill against an olive tree.

"You will drive, Mr Micklem," Alsconi said. "You will take me with all possible speed to Civitavecchia." He looked at Lorelli. "You will sit beside him. If either of you make a move to attract attention, I shall shoot you. Do you understand?"

"You're not going to get far," Don said. "You're just kidding yourself if you think you're going to get away."

Listening, Crantor thought the same.

"Get in the car!" Alsconi snarled.

Don and Lorelli walked over to the Bentley; the other two followed. They got in the car and Don started the engine. He turned the car and headed back to Siena.

The time was now a few minutes to one o'clock. They had a hundred and twenty miles to cover to reach the port. The roads would be deserted. Alsconi reckoned they should arrive by half-past three.

"Lombardo should be sleeping on board," he said to Crantor, "but if he isn't we will not be able to wait for him. Can you handle the boat?"

"I can try," Crantor said doubtfully. "I haven't handled a big motorboat before, but I'm pretty good with engines."

"Don't talk like a fool," Alsconi snarled. "You would have to navigate the boat. Could you get me to Monte Carlo?"